Hedonism
by lunalumax292
Summary: He doesn't know her name. He doesn't know anything about her. But he does know that it's the best sex he's ever had. Drugs, alcohol, sex.
1. Chapter 1

**Hedonism**

He's in some kind of Underground rave, he thinks. There are dancing bodies pushing against him from all sides, the music's so loud that he can't even hear it, and there is MDMA in his veins that makes him feel fucking wonderful.

He loves the simplicity of it, the raw _honesty_. The mass of tangled people, moving as one to the deafening bass line, the utter _freedom_ he feels in this darkened, dirty warehouse. It smells of sweat and cigarettes, of spilled drinks and weed and sex, of unadulterated _hedonism, _and he seriously thinks the scent could be bottled and sold.

The strobe lights are blinding, flashing blue and green and red, and Draco sighs, closing his eyes and allowing himself to be jostled in the undulating crowd.

He reaches up to adjust the mask covering his eyes, his fingers trailing absently over the raised patterns on the material.

Draco looks around and smiles, not giving a fuck that he's a wizard, not giving a fuck that there are non-magical girls grinding against him, not giving a fuck that he's drunk and high and hasn't got a fucking clue where he is, not giving a fuck about the Mark on his arm for the first time in over a month.

His hearing is returned to him, briefly, and he takes advantage of the noise, elbowing Theo and screaming his praise. _"Good idea, mate. Seriously."_ Theo gives him a superior nod and disappears.

Draco thinks he should care, but he doesn't.

He turns, his eyes scanning through the gyrating crowd. He sees her, then, the girl.

Inky black hair flying out around her, fishnet tights, leather dress, leopard print combat boots.

She's pale and thin and _oh fuck _if she isn't the most beautiful thing he's ever seen in his entire life.

Her kohl-lined eyes open and he stares – his molten grey burning into her glowing emerald – and she smiles, wanton and inviting, beckoning him over.

Her tongue darts out to moisten her painted red lips, she gazes up at him, her pupils blown. She's high, he knows, and he doesn't care. He holds her eyes, reaching to brush her tangled hair away from her sculpted face, his fingers trying to find the ribbon holding her mask in place.

She bats his hand away and wags a finger at him, smirking at his chagrin.

He lowers his hands to her hips and pulls her against him. He knows she can feel it – his sudden, aching erection – and he shamelessly paws at her, relishing in her hooded eyes, feline smile, and the knowing push of her derriere against his groin. She leans back into him, her fingers tangling in the hair at his nape, and she arches her back, tilting her head to press her lips against his.

She tastes like sin, he thinks; like weed and absinthe.

Sweeping his tongue over the crease of her lips, Draco drags a hand up her torso to cup her leather-encased breast. He squeezes lightly, grunting when he feels her nails grip his neck. She pulls away, biting her lip and gazing bemusedly up at him.

_"Cigarette,"_ she whispers, tugging him from the packed dance floor and out into the stifling August evening.

She somehow manages to pull _his_ cigarettes out of his back pocket, lighting one up and blowing a smoke ring in his face. There's something about her eyes, Draco thinks, something that strikes a chord with him. It's as if he knows her, and yet he's sure that he doesn't.

She's like a little doll, he muses, a doll with wild hair and a dress that's positively sinful.

He lights up his own cigarette and leans back to watch her, his eyes grazing over her lustfully. The dress, he notices, is a leather-corset-tutu affair with netting under the skirt. Her legs are skinny inside the fishnets, and the huge boots on her feet – almost comically large compared to her willowy limbs – have neon pink laces.

The mask on her face is similar to his own; plain and black. It highlights her eyes – the pools of green perhaps too large on her face, lined in lashes too thick to be natural.

"You're staring," she points out, shaking her head. He runs a hand through his hair and takes a drag of his cigarette, looking away from her person for the first time since they came outside.

Her eyes errantly stray to the Dark Mark on his left wrist and narrow in recognition; a look of respect flits over her face and then it is gone, her emotionless gaze quickly reappearing. Draco notices, and ignores it.

She throws her cigarette to the floor, grinding it beneath the toe of her boot, and stares up at him expectantly, far more seductively than should be allowed, Draco muses.

She isn't disappointed. He takes a last drag from his cigarette and casts it away, pulling her into his arms and capturing her mouth with a passion he wasn't sure he possessed. She sighs against his mouth; winding her arms around him and standing up on tiptoe to align their centres.

He pulls away, breathless, and gazes down at her. "Your name..."

"...Is not important," she replies challengingly, her eyes flashing in warning.

He knows for definite, then; she knows who he is. Or, at least, _what _he is. She bites her lip, wondering if she's put him off, and smirks when his mouth descends on her neck. She tilts her head, allowing him better access, and moans when she feels him mark the skin of her shoulder.

And then he's pressing her against the wall, completely uncaring that they're outside of a warehouse in inner city Manchester, not giving a fuck that the sun's probably about to rise and highlight their actions to the reawakening population of the north.

He needs this, Draco reasons, groaning as her teeth find his nipple.

His hand snakes up her thigh, his fingers tearing the crotch of her fishnets and shoving aside the wisp of lace that covers her. He smirks at the feel of her pierced clit, toying mercilessly with the barbell.

She mewls against his shoulder, laughing throatily when he lifts her. Her legs wrap around his waist, his hips suddenly pinning her against the brick.

He's coherent enough to remember the condom, but barely; her insistent mouth on his neck is his undoing. He surges into her, swallowing her lustful cry in a heated kiss. He's being too rough, he knows, but she seems to enjoy it. Her long nails claw at his back and Draco absently notes that she's broken the skin in her urgency.

She arches her back and he groans, the sensation of being inside her tight little body suddenly washing over him. _"Fuck_," he hisses, "_You have to tell me your name."_

The girl shakes her head, moaning as he shifts her and resuming his thrusting. She allows him to take control of her; it isn't her usual way of doing things, but she's seen the Mark on his arm, and though she isn't sure of his exact identity, she figures he's probably got some issues to work out, and in any case, it's fucking _amazing_. She wants to care that she's fucking a total stranger in an alleyway, fucking a _Death Eater _in an alleyway, but the drugs coursing through her system make her worries evaporate and she closes her eyes, moaning loudly as his hands on her hips clench with a renewed intensity.

He flips her hair over her shoulder; his eyes narrowing at the music note tattooed behind her right ear, and pulls her lobe into his mouth. Her back is being ground against the wall – she'll be sore and probably bruised - but she can't bring herself to stop him.

Her climax is sudden and unexpected, she clenches around him and he groans. He's never felt anything like this, never experienced such _intensity_, such an uncontrollable desire to _possess_.

He follows quickly after her, wishing wholeheartedly that he hadn't bothered with the condom if only for the feeling of emptying himself into her body, and lowers his forehead to her shoulder. Their breath comes together in desperate gasps, and when he sets her legs on the floor, her thighs tremble. He rips off the condom and throws it over his shoulder, tucking himself back into his jeans.

Draco turns to look at her, blinking when the air around her suddenly swirls. She waggles her fingers and smiles.

He feels it, the magic, and opens his mouth incredulously as she disappears with a CRACK.

He turns his back to the wall and sinks down, lighting up a cigarette and shaking his head. He tears off his mask and stuffs it into his pocket. He looks around and smirks; the sun is beginning to rise, now, and the world seems altogether less bleak than it has in months.

* * *

**I want to make this into a multi-chapter fic, but not too sure... **


	2. Chapter 2

He takes a sip from his firewhiskey and grimaces; he prefers vodka, if truth be told, but he's at a high-society party and he shouldn't really be drinking at all, so beggars can't be choosers.

He reaches up to run a hand through his hair and grimaces. He fucking hates wearing gel.

There's a mask over his face – again – and he wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of his mother's extravagant ideas. _"A masked ball, Draco; imagine it!"_

Movement to his left catches his attention and he looks up disinterestedly, sighing wistfully into his drink as the girl pulls out a packet of cigarettes and lights up.

"Want one?"

He stiffens at the voice and glances up again. "You."

The girl raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"From the rave." He plucks a cigarette from the packet. "_Incendio."_

She looks around and flourishes her hand in the air around them. "_Muffliato. _Perhaps," she replies, her eyes dancing in confirmation. "But why does it matter?"

Draco shrugs, raising an eyebrow at her casual use of wandless magic. "It matters."

She sits down beside him. "Why?"

"Just does."

She gazes at him, head tilted, nibbling on her lip.

"_You're staring at me,"_ Draco says with a reminiscent smile, placing his empty glass down on the floor. "What I wouldn't give for a shot of something stronger."

She laughs knowingly and opens her bag, rummaging around elbow deep in the tiny clutch for a moment before producing a bottle of Jack Daniels. She unscrews the cap and takes a drink, wincing at the momentary burn in her throat. She offers him the bottle and they sit in silence for a while, sharing the alcohol between them.

"My back is a mess, you know," he remarks to her quietly, and she rolls her eyes.

"Forgive me. You seemed to enjoy it."

He can't think of anything to say to that, because in truth, he did.

There isn't much left in the bottle by the time Draco finds it in him to speak to her again. "Who are you?"

"A pureblood, if it makes any difference, _darling_."

"Do you know who I am?" he wonders, stealing a glance at her.

"You're _Draco Malfoy_," she replies mockingly, "Pureblood, mummy's boy and Death Eater _extraordinaire_." He bristles at her tone and she sighs. "I was joking."

Draco relaxes a little and licks his lips, his eyes flickering down to her lap. "Bit unusual for a pureblood to have a piercing where you have a piercing, isn't it?"

She snorts in admission, her cheeks colouring. "Bit unusual for a pureblood of your _status," _her tone is scathing - it irks him, "To appear at Muggle raves, isn't it?"

"Touché."

She smiles and picks up her bag again, looking inside the tiny opening for a moment and then reaching her arm inside. Her hand emerges seconds later, clutching a bag of white powder like a lifeline. She waves it in front of him, licking her lips. "Want some?"

"MDMA?"

She rolls her eyes. "No, castor sugar." She opens the small bag and licks the tip of her pointer finger, dipping it inside the substance and then rubbing it on her gums. After repeating this process three times, she passes the bag to Draco, smiling as the drug makes her mouth tingle.

He follows her example, but then raises the bag to his mouth and takes out a clump of the powder with his tongue. Before she's realised what's happened, he's pulled her forwards, pressing his mouth against hers and thrusting his tongue past her lips.

She groans at the sudden sensation, wrapping her arms around his neck. She pulls away after a moment and smirks at him, sighing happily as her blood starts to thrum.

He glances down at her, then, and blinks at her appearance. A long ball gown, elegant and yet echoing her alternative taste; black silk tight against her skinny frame, a lime green bow at her tiny waist, the material looser around her calves to allow her to move. The mask on her face is satin and silver and patterned with lines of charcoal glitter.

He shakes his head at her appearance and brushes a black curl away from her face, his fingertips grazing the tattoo behind her ear, smirking as she blanches at the intimate touch.

"Ah, Draco, there you are!" Narcissa stiffens when she sees the practically empty bottle of whiskey on the floor. "I do hope you haven't been drinking that."

"It was already out here, Mrs Malfoy," his female companion says soothingly, and Narcissa visibly relaxes.

"Ah, ok." Narcissa tilts her head and narrows her eyes at the girl. "Your father is looking for you."

"Is he? He can look a little longer, then." She pulls out a cigarette from her bag and lights it, raising an eyebrow as if to dare Narcissa to challenge her about it. "My father knows I smoke, if you're wondering," she supplies, smiling benignly.

Narcissa shakes her head, her disapproval clear, and sighs. "Alright. Draco, don't sit out here all night. There are _other_ guests here, too, not just pretty girls. I'll see you inside, young lady."

She stiffens and narrows her eyes on his mother's retreating figure. "I'm sure you will."

"You're brave," Draco comments lightly, leaning back on his hands, "Talking to my mother like that."

"My own mother thinks herself to be a far more terrifying creature; _yours_ doesn't frighten me," she assures him, quirking an eyebrow at his awed expression. "_What?_"

"She frightens _me,"_ he replies with a grimace.

"I find that hard to believe." Her voice has taken on a husky, promising quality and Draco smirks again. She sees his eyes darken and stands up. "I should go back inside. Don't want father to come looking for me."

"And who might your father be?"

She taps her nose and smirks. "That would be telling." She leans down to him, cupping his face between her hands, and presses her lips gently to his. The kiss is chaste and lasts only a moment, but the moment is enough to enflame his desire. He frowns as she backs out of his reach, and disappears back inside.

...

"Do you waltz?"

She looks up and wrinkles her nose. "But of course." She extends a hand and allows him to sweep her out of her chair.

Much to Draco's surprise, her dancing is more than adequate, and she laughs deliciously as he dips her. "You're good."

The girl shrugs as they continue their spinning. "I like to dance."

Malfoy raises an eyebrow, remembering her outfit at the rave the previous week and her readiness to ply him with drugs. "You don't seem the dancing type."

"You know nothing about me," she points out blandly, "But, for your information, I _am _the dancing type." She gazes at him for a moment, studying his face, trying to gauge his level of interest. "Perhaps I'll show you one day."

"Tell me something about yourself."

She smiles. "I'm fifteen."

He considers this. "So you're at school?"

"Well, no. Currently I am waltzing around the grand ballroom of Malfoy Manor." She smiles. "Yes, I'm at school. Hogwarts, actually. Going into my fifth year in September, turning sixteen in October."

Draco shakes his head. "I'd remember someone like you."

"Apparently not," she replies, teasing him now, "You have _no idea_ who I am."

"Are you a Slytherin?"

Scoffing, the girl uses the hand on his shoulder to pinch him. "What else would I be?"

"I just find it hard to believe that I've been in the same house as you for the past four years and never noticed you."

"I'm not your type," the girl assures him, "I'm too free for your taste."

Suddenly pulling her roughly against him, Draco ends their dance, much to the inconvenience of the couples waltzing around them. "Perhaps all I really _need_ is a little taste of freedom."

She smirks and wraps her arms around his neck, her fingers brushing against the hair at his nape. "I prefer you without hair gel."

"Draco," a snide voice to his left interrupts, "Would you mind explaining your actions?"

"It's my fault, Mr Malfoy," the girl in his arms explains, "I lost my footing and _dear _Draco was helping me to regain my balance."

"Indeed," Lucius murmurs, gazing between the girl and his son with a newly found interest.

Draco scowls as she slips out of his grasp.

"I must find my father. Excuse me, please." Her tone is apologetic and resolute. She can feel the eyes on her, can hear the scandalised whispers of their audience, and it makes her head ache.

"Young Miss Yaxley seems much taken with you," his father comments after a while, "I am surprised."

"Miss _Yaxley?_"

Lucius gives his son a bemused look. "Yes. Her father is a Death Eater. She is the apple of his eye, of course, and he is understandably oblivious to the chaos that seems to follow her around. I am curious, however, as to how _you_ have become acquainted with her - she tends to avoid these functions."

Draco stiffens, and for once is thankful for his strict stiff-upper-lip-esque upbringing; he manages to keep his expression completely indifferent, and shrugs. "School, of course. She is a Slytherin."

"And yet, you did not even know her name." His father's voice is soft and dangerous, the way it is when he knows he is being lied to.

"She's in the year below me," he replies, trying to appear nonplussed, "Why _would _I know her name?"

Lucius raises an eyebrow. "Because she is a beautiful girl, Draco, and - though I do not pretend to comprehend why - they seem to flock to you."

"Perhaps I'm not her type."

His father seems to accept this excuse, for now, and Draco is once again left alone with his thoughts. It is then, however, that he realises the truth of his words.

With much dismay, Draco Malfoy considers the very real possibility that the one girl that he hasn't been able to stop thinking about might not be attracted to him at all.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time he sees her again is on the train.

He doesn't seek her out, but its rather hard _not _to notice her, especially now that he knows who she is.

He studies her; it's odd, really, to see her in uniform. Even more so to see her attention captured by a Potions textbook.

Like the other Slytherins, her skirt is much shorter than it should be, her blouse tighter, her buttons undone to a sinfully low point on her chest. His eyes centre on the expanse of creamy thigh that stretches between the hem of her skirt and her charcoal knee socks, and he frowns as something below his navel jolts awake. Her tie is loose and chunky, her long nails painted a metallic grey, her eyes outlined in kohl.

Her hair seems almost normal, he notes, and it intrigues him; captured in a complicated looking side-braid and fastened with a Slytherin green ribbon, the ends of her ebony tresses brushing her waist, a side fringe framing her elfin face.

In conclusion, he decides, she is the epitome of a naughty school girl. That being said, it surprises him that she's sitting beside Astoria Greengrass, a girl almost too quiet and reserved and proper to be in Slytherin.

Seemingly sensing his eyes on her, she looks up from her book, amused. Her eyes flicker to the Prefect badge pinned on his jumper, and she raises an eyebrow. She reaches up to tuck her hair behind her left ear, revealing a neon pink spike hooked through her earlobe in the place of an earring.

She tilts her head and gazes at him for a moment and he looks away, uncomfortable under her scrutiny.

He feels her breeze past him and excuses himself from the conversation that he wasn't really paying any notice to, following her from the compartment.

...

He finds her standing by an open window, drizzle falling on her face, and she jolts when he clears his throat, turning the full effect of her eyes on him.

He gapes at her, momentarily entranced, and she smiles. "Yes?"

"You look different," he says, moving to stand beside her.

She snorts. "Wouldn't do if I was wearing a leather dress and combat boots for school, now, would it? Granger would have a field day."

"What's it got to do with Granger what you're wearing?"

The Yaxley Girl - as he's taken to calling her, in his mind - shakes her head. "She doesn't like me."

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. "And how do you know that?"

"Because I know that she shagged Krum after the Yule Ball," she replies blandly, rolling her eyes when Draco splutters.

"Granger didn't shag Krum after the Yule Ball."

She looks up at him. "She did. D'you remember when Rita Skeeter was going around with that bloody camera and taking photos of everyone and everything? Well, I went into work with my Mother one day during the Christmas holidays - she works at the _Prophet_ - and Rita said I could have a look through the photographs. I came across a lovely one of the grounds, and _voila_, there were Granger and Krum, hidden away in the corner of the photo, going at it against a wall. Rita hadn't seen them in the act, you could tell; the angle of the camera was way off, but she would have eventually noticed the two tiny moving figures in the corner. Safe to say I nicked the photo."

"But, that means you did her a favour," Draco says, "Why would she dislike you for that?"

The girl smirks, a true Slytherin affair. Cold, dangerous, lustful. "Because I used that photograph to terrorise her for months. It was _très amusant."_

Draco laughs, delighted at her deviant side. "I wish I'd known."

"Nah, it lost it's appeal after a while. There's only so many times you can see a Gryffindor cry without vomiting." She shudders at the memory. "So I met up with her one night and gave her the photo. Told her I was bored of tormenting her, that she wasn't worth playing with. We had a fight - don't you remember seeing Granger with a black eye, the end of your fourth year? - and she basically promised to make my life a living hell if I ever crossed her again. What she doesn't know is that I made two replicas of the photo before giving her the original. And she also doesn't know that, after she threatened me, I gave my father one of the copies. So now there's a nice little surprise waiting for her if she pushes me too far - an exposé on her and Krum's torrid love affair."

"Bloody hell."

"Yeah," she agrees, grinning up at him. Without her heels, she was shorter than him, but not by much. She leans back against the window, gazing up at him.

A moment passes between them, filled with tension and heat and promise, and he kisses her, demanding entrance into her mouth with a sweep of his tongue against her lips. She moans at his sudden passion, clinging to his shoulders as he presses her against the window. Feebly, she pushes at his shoulders. "Not here," she breathes, "Not where people can see."

"Fuck them," he says, his hands on her derriere, pulling her body into his.

She wrenches her head away, valiantly distancing herself from his grasp. _"No. _I'm not going to shag you in the walkway on the bloody Hogwarts Express; what do you take me for?"

"You didn't mind shagging me in an alley way," he retorts angrily. He isn't used to having his wants denied.

She steps forwards, slapping him hard across the face. It stings, and he winces. "_Fuck you_," the girl hisses, shaking her head in disgust, backing away and leaving him alone, staring out into the miserable Scottish countryside.

...

Having shoved his book into his bag, Draco stuffs his bag back onto the luggage rack and sits down. The Yaxley Girl is back in her previous spot, apparently riveted by her Potions textbook. He rolls his eyes and scowls.

The Slytherin compartment is plunged into a sudden and unnatural darkness, and Draco stands up again, his wand already pointed down the carriage. He senses her behind him, on her feet, her own wand at the ready. But then, almost all of the upper school Slytherins have taken similar precautions. It was no secret amongst them that Voldemort was back and recruiting heavily, and it had set them all on edge.

The light returns almost as quickly as it had been stolen, the blackness fading away like a cloud.

"What was that?!" Draco demands, "Blaise?!"

Blaise shrugs. "I dunno."

"Relax, boys," Pansy says, the calm in her voice obviously forced, "It's probably just some first year messing around. Come on, Draco, sit down. We'll be at Hogwarts soon."

Draco turns in time to see the Yaxley Girl frown in Pansy's direction, and is intrigued by the animosity in her eyes.

"Hogwarts. What a pathetic excuse for a school," he spits, his eyes once again drawn to the Yaxley Girl to gauge her response. Her lips twitch; she's heard him, and her silent agreement shows on her face. He goes on, "I think I'd pitch myself off of the Astronomy Tower if I thought I had to continue for another two years."

Pansy leans towards him, concerned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Let's just say I don't see myself wasting my time in _Charms class _next year," he replies, his tone hinting that there is more to the tale.

The Yaxley Girl's answering cough is pointed and deliberate, and she raises her eyes to the luggage rack above his head. She shakes her head, pressing her lips together and glances back at the rack. The message is clear; _we are not alone. _

His attention is drawn by Blaise's amused snort. "Amused, Blaise? We'll see just who's laughing in the end."

...

"You two go on," Draco says to Blaise and Pansy, "I want to check something."

He notices that the Yaxley Girl - he really _must _find out her bloody name - is still in her seat. She gathers her belongings slowly, pretending to struggle to reach her hand luggage. Draco sighs and stands up, assisting her even though they both know that she is tall enough to manage on her own.

"I'm sorry if I offended you, earlier," Draco mutters, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

"Thank you," she murmurs, turning and biting her lip.

She hooks her bag over her shoulder and glances up and down the carriage, seemingly checking that they are alone. He knows this is for show, for the benefit of their invisible _audience._ And then she leans up to put her lips near his ear; to the observer, it would seem as if she was kissing his cheek. "It would seem that we have captured some lightening," she whispers, so quiet that he can barely hear her, and then she _does_ peck his check, smirking slightly as she moves away and out into the September evening. "Tata."

...

He closes the door behind her, just managing to glimpse her brandish her wand and flick it in the direction of the Slytherin compartment. The shutters along the windows fall closed in reply to her silent magical command, and he pulls down the blind on the door.

"Didn't Mummy ever tell you that it was rude to eavesdrop, Potter?" Draco snarls, pointing his wand at the luggage rack. "_Petrificus Totalus!" _Draco stalks along the compartment, leaning down to tear the invisibility cloak away from Harry's immobilised form. "Oh yeah," he goes on, "She was dead before you could wipe the drool off your chin." He takes great pleasure in stamping on Potter's face, relishing in the crunch that sounds from his rival's nose. "That's for my father. Enjoy your ride back to London." He picks up the cloak and covers Harry with it, grabbing his bag and stepping out onto the platform, locking the carriage door behind him.

She hadn't waited for him, but then, he hadn't really expected her to.

...

He's held up again by Filch, going through his bloody luggage under the supervision of the Aurors. He really should write to his father and tell him about how the Malfoy name is now inspiring a bizarre form of prejudice... Oh. He can't do that, because his father's in bloody Azkaban. He remembers what he's just done to Potter, and smirks in spite of his annoyance. It is quickly wiped away, however, by the prodding finger of the Squib on his arm.

"What's this cane, 'ere, then?"

Draco scoffs, disgusted. "It's not a _cane_, you cretin, it's a broomstick!"

"It could be used as an offensive weapon," Filch persists, and Draco's fists clench.

His Godfather steps out of the treeline and Draco relaxes. "It's alright, Mr Filch," Snape says, "I can vouch for Mr Malfoy."

Draco reaches for the broomstick - it really does look like a cane, now that he thinks about it - and snatches it from the caretaker. He glances back at the gates, smirking when he sees Harry's bloodied face and his obviously broken nose. "Nice face, Potter."

...

She doesn't look up as he sits down beside her, though she's surprised that he has chosen to sit by her. Even more surprised to find that she'd actually saved him a space on the bench without even realising it.

"You're _late_," she says, her tone mocking, stirring her cocoa by means of hovering her pointer finger over her spoon, her eyes fixed on her book.

"He's always late," Theo interjects, gazing between Draco and the younger girl curiously.

"Potter was hidden in our compartment," Draco explains, rolling his eyes as Pansy fixes him a plate of food. Honestly, he's not a fucking child. "Under his daddy's invisibility cloak."

The Slytherin table falls silent, and he notices that the Yaxley Girl is the only one to remain unmoved by this piece of news.

How did she know who was in their compartment, anyway?

There is an erruption of outrage, and Draco sighs impatiently. "I broke his nose. Can I eat my dinner, now?"

She stops stirring her drink and glances up. "And did you take the cloak? By rights, it was yours, considering you were the one to unveil him."

He stiffens; there's something in her voice that irritates him. More so because he hadn't even _thought_ of taking the cloak and hadn't remembered that delightful piece of magical law. "...No."

She scoffs, but says nothing.

"Piss off," he grumbles, slightly ashamed of himself and furious at her for pointing it out.

Who was she to make him feel inadequate?

"Oi, Delilah, pass the potatoes!"

The Yaxley Girl scowled. "You've got your own fucking arms, Pucey. Get them yourself."


End file.
